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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23331262">Please Stop Writing?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toshi_Nama/pseuds/Toshi_Nama'>Toshi_Nama</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bad Sex, F/F, F/M, Hilariously bad sex, M/M, No really - it's really bad sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:13:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,952</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23331262</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toshi_Nama/pseuds/Toshi_Nama</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>'I never thought to say this, but The Lust Of The Avvar is a blend of wild abandon, unforgettable metaphor and intense passions! Four scarves DROPPED out of five!'</p><p>- The Randy Dowager Quarterly</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Please Stop Writing?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/delawana/gifts">delawana</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>All of this was sparked by a laugh over r/menwritingwomen and a Bad Smut contest from my dear friend Dela. Thank you so much, I had a blast!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>'He</em> <em> paced, his shirt clinging wetly to every line of muscle. Even the faint texture of his hair showed through. She couldn’t resist - didn’t want to resist. Not with that, or the look in his eyes. Instead, she devoured him in turn, both drawing sustenance from the other. Their bodies clashed and warred, seeking…' </em></p><p>He blinked.</p><p>“What is <em> this?” </em></p><p>The table, or his top-weight parchment, didn’t answer. Even his quill refused. Of course they refused. This was all some terrible…</p><p>It was <em> terrible, </em>is what it was.</p><p>But…</p><p>
  <em> 'She grabbed the amulet hanging around his neck, pulling him closer, demanding he spear her. And spear her he did, driving forward again and again, throbbing against her navel until he moaned.' </em>
</p><p>“Navel?”</p><p>“Excuse me, ser?” The startled, quiet voice caught his attention. Oh, one of the servants cleaning up from last night. She stared at him with wide eyes. “What did you need?”</p><p>Varric waved his hand. “Nothing, just a letter for an editor. Oh, and stop calling me ser.” </p><p>The servant scuttled off, content that he was deliberately making no sense.</p><p>They never listened, but he kept trying. Sometimes he missed the Hanged Man. Then he ignored the enormous hall around him and tried to push the memory of stale piss, bad sausages, and dampgas out of his mind so he could focus on what was in his hand. </p><p>This had to be a joke, but it didn’t have enough breasts for it to be a note from Isabela, and who else really would write something like this? Someone, apparently. He’d never read anything so bad in his life, and he’d read Worthy’s crap. Worse, they used <em> his parchment </em>to do it!</p><p>But…</p><p>He flipped a couple pages. The fact he <em> could </em>flip a couple pages was somehow worse than what he’d already read.</p><p>
  <em> 'Panting, he knelt to the other man, hoping for more. Hoping to claim him by being claimed - and the heavy nest around his thighs promised everything he could wish for.' </em>
</p><p>Wait. It had been a woman and a man. He was <em> sure </em>of that.</p><p>He scanned...oh, there were three women on the next page, <em>'</em> <em> their oiled bodies heaving against each other, his eyes the driving force to their pleasure. It wasn’t until he pulled out his cock that their motions grew frantic, guiding them all along the rutting road to pleasure beyond their wildest dreams…' </em></p><p>“I’ve <em> got </em> to find out who wrote this,” Varric muttered to himself. It was an abomination - and he knew abominations. They promised and entranced and dragged you straight to the Void before you knew what was happening. Worse, it was all perfectly <em> reasonable.  </em></p><p>Well, there was a difference right there. Nothing he’d just read was reasonable.</p><p>No one who’d ever had sex could possibly use terms like ‘love nest’ or ‘pit of pleasure.’</p><p>He wanted to believe that no one who’d ever had sex could use those terms. Or had ever <em> heard </em>of sex.</p><p>It went on for <em> eight pages. </em> For the love of ale, how had this mystery writer managed that in the three hours he’d used to nap off his hangover, all without anyone seeing them do it? Because they’d done it at <em> his table. </em>Using his ink, his…</p><p>He decided to just throw away that quill. There was no telling where it had been. And the inkpot, too.</p><p>On the other hand…</p><p>Varric pulled out the last clean sheet of parchment, and wrote a quick note. <em> ‘To whoever left this memorable work - I have GOT to meet you. Please. It was completely unforgettable.’ </em></p><p>‘Unforgettable,’ yes. Pleasant, no. He’d never be able to drink it out of his memory. On the other hand, he scanned it over again. It really <em> was </em>an abomination. It wouldn’t let you go.</p><p>
  <em> ‘I’d like to introduce you to someone.’  </em>
</p><p>There was a market for everything, he’d learned. Besides, he really had to meet this person, whoever it was.</p><p>
  <em> A new Breach exploded within her. </em>
</p><p>He shuddered.</p><p>He’d done what he could for now. Leaving everything where it was, he headed into the painful light of midafternoon to get some breakfast at the Herald’s Rest. The shadowed greatness of Skyhold’s main hall hung behind him, with too many doors to count. Perhaps, he’d meet this mystery author.</p><p>That was the dangerous thing about abominations. You always wanted more.</p><p>**</p><p>The note was gone by the time he sat down, but nothing. Damn it, he’d hoped while he was over with the others at the Rest...which turned from breakfast into an impromptu lecture on the applicability of barrels or potato sacks for archery butts, which then had to be <em> tested, </em> and then it was lunch, and some random Ser Something kept <em> on </em> at him for the <em> perfect </em>idea to continue his crime series…</p><p>“Damn,” he muttered. “Nothing. Well, at least the note got nicked? Who could write like that here?”</p><p>That was a ridiculous question. Skyhold was so lousy with nobles, knights, soldiers, pilgrims, and random hangers-on, it might as well be the head of a seaside street urchin. The two-legged kind, not the spiky thing that idiots kept insisting was edible. In either case, he was headed out with the Inquisitor to somewhere in Orlais soon. </p><p>“Here’s hoping it’s dry.” The ‘fallow mire’ had been even worse than he’d expected, and he’d been waist deep in most of it. Wait, waist deep <em> and </em>attacked by undead. Then there was the Storm Coast... “Oh, and that there aren’t too many hills. Wet and hills? Screw it. Maybe that’ll be long enough for my mystery writer to write.”</p><p>It didn’t take him too long to wrap up his current projects. He had a few letters to write, an editor to threaten, another editor to beg, and the usual Merchant’s Guild nonsense. He did make sure to hide all his good parchment and leave out some of the copper-weight stuff as well as a full ink bottle once he was done. After all, if he got lucky he’d rather it was with cheap paper.</p><p>“Heh,” he chuckled to himself. “I’m not sure anyone’s getting lucky - but you never know. I’d like to.”</p><p>
  <em> You always wanted more... </em>
</p><p>**</p><p>Three weeks later and his desk was the same mess it always had been. Varric snarled at it as he trudged to set Bianca carefully in her place of honor. “Screw it, I’m not dealing with paperwork until after my bath.”</p><p>But wait. What had happened to the table he called home?</p><p>He hadn’t left his desk a mess, had he? Not this time. He glanced over it, and swore to himself. “By Maferath’s testicles.” He started smiling and flipped through the parchment. It was his good parchment - again - but still. Ten pages. <em> Ten. </em>The mystery writer was at it again. He’d recognize the handwriting anywhere. He’d also never forget what it wrote, but that was becoming the point.</p><p>The other letters, whether in the bland type of his publisher or the florid calligraphy of someone who thought he was more important that he was, just didn’t matter. Those he could deal with later. He carefully gathered up the ones written in that new hand without looking at any words.</p><p>“This…I think need a drink. And a bath.” But once he had those, these would make great reading material.</p><p>
  <em> 'His sides were as rough as the half-tanned leather he wore around him, but its rankness couldn’t disguise his scent. Not that it tried. ‘Come here,’ he grunted, and she did. They circled like vultures, the prey nothing but what lay between them. Lay it would. Her feathers stayed cocked up as he stripped her with his eyes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Once her clothing was no obstacle, she demanded…' </em>
</p><p>“What?” Varric sat up sharply, then fumbled for the pages. “Shit!” They’d scattered everywhere when he’d moved.</p><p>He gathered them and put them on the table rather than the fancy tilted thing he’d gotten fit for his tub. Only one had water spots: it would be fine. The ink might smudge, but he’d saved it from anything that would make it unreadable. That assumed it was <em> readable, </em>but it was. For a certain definition.</p><p>
  <em> '‘Will you aid my tribe?’ The question was casual, despite their musk-drenched bodies. ‘We need seed and warriors.’' </em>
</p><p>“Seed,” he muttered.</p><p>
  <em> '‘You have proven yourself, on the cliffs of my home’ Brown-grog replied. ‘Name your reward.’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She levered herself up and affectionately combed through his mat of hair. ‘Your hold-beast, the three warriors who dared to challenge me, and your daughter.’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He nodded, unperturbed.' </em>
</p><p>Varric shuddered. “My chest hair isn’t a mat.” No, it was an avvar? Maybe an avvar, at least. He hadn’t spent enough time looking at them in the Mire to really pay attention to whether their hair was thick enough to be a mat.</p><p><em> He’d just thought that. He was trying to make </em> sense <em> out of this, Hessarian save him. </em></p><p>“I can’t...wait…”</p><p>He shook his head and winced. That was a mistake. It was as much a mistake as reading this, though less of a mistake than encouraging the writer to keep going. On the other hand...he’d seen the market. He’d also <em> met </em> the nobles who thought themselves literary. It would sell. Maker forgive him, it would <em> sell.  </em></p><p>He knew he didn’t have enough beer for this, but he still flipped to a later page. Oh, somewhere else? Were these little ideas? Starts of…</p><p>
  <em> 'Crusted with sugar, she couldn’t resist nibbling on him. ‘So sweet,’ she purred, and took another bite. He writhed. ‘More!’' </em>
</p><p>So much for the beer. He didn’t want <em> anything </em>in his mouth now.</p><p>“Who <em> is </em>this person? What...how…” He couldn’t even continue. Not with his eyes skipping ahead to the rest.</p><p>
  <em> 'They had to hurry, as the heavy summer sun started melting him. Syrup, it dripped from the table. She was up to the task, catching the drips as she motioned for the others to…' </em>
</p><p>“Annd I’m done. So much for my bath. Time for something else. I’ve got to inflict this on someone else.”</p><p>The beer wasn’t strong enough - and besides, he’d remembered beer dreams. No, he needed stronger stuff. He hauled himself out of the copper tub and towelled off, wondering...yes. He’d do that. Then he’d have a way to get actual, <em> real </em>-strength alcohol.</p><p>Time for the Herald’s Rest.</p><p>**</p><p>The other Chargers had gone silent, even Rocky...though Grim was gagging over his cup and Skinner had already brought back another set of very glass bottles sloshing with something too clear to be good for the throat.</p><p><em> “And so they continued, their heat pulling from every source, the windows frosting with pants of desire. It wasn’t enough. Again, and again they attacked each other, demanding with every begging breath to be unmasked…” </em> The bass went silent. “Varric, are you <em> sure </em>this is real?”</p><p>He drank from his own mug, swallowing the fiery liquid because it would hurt <em> more </em>going out through his nose. He’d learned that drinking with Isabela back when. “I shit you not, Bull. I don’t know where it comes from, but I’ve found pages of the stuff.”</p><p>“It’s not even <em> bad, </em>Chief,” said a normally swave voice. This time, it was hoarse. Whether it was the drinking or what else the poor man was holding back, Varric wouldn’t take odds. Both. It had to be both. “It’s worse. Because you can’t stop reading it. It should flicker out, and it doesn’t.”</p><p>“Yeah. It’s like that shit you brew, but on paper.”</p><p>Bull reared back when Skinner joined in Krem’s complaining. “Maraas-lok? No! That’s actually...well, bad, but it does the job.”</p><p>“Does it? Does it really? Because I’ve got another seven pages.” He chuckled at the sudden flare in the Qunari’s eye. “Let’s compare.”</p><p>“Yeah,” the Qunari said after glancing at the rest of the page. His voice would have been faint, if that barrel chest could do faint. “Yeah, we can do that. It’s terrible, but….”</p><p>
  <em> But. </em>
</p><p>That was the frightening word about the whole thing, Varric thought as the bar started to close down and the nobles were shooed or drug out, and the soldiers headed to their beds before Curly coud drag them out in a few hours. <em> But. </em>With this, there was that moment. It wasn’t just him. The Chargers had it, too. He snuck in a last word with the Qunari before he left.</p><p>“It’s an abomination, Bull - but it’s...somehow, it comes back to being something just…” He took the cup from one of the other Chargers as they exchanged nods. It was <em> gold. </em>The only question, really, was whether he was willing to get his hands dirty enough to pocket some of it.</p><p>
  <em> Well, that and whether I can find this author and get them to write more. I’ve written dripping men, but not men literally dripping off of a table. I can’t finish this. </em>
</p><p>After coughing out his first drink of whatever oddly amber liquid was in his cup, Bull clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man!”</p><p>The others realized the main event was over, but Bull met him drink for drink. Somehow leaving got pushed back.</p><p>“Whatcha going to do, Varric?”</p><p>“Regret living in the morning?”</p><p>Bull laughed. “No, really. About this thing. Writer.”</p><p>He shrugged, and answered. “Try meet this person, and convince them to talk to my publisher. What else can I do? It’s literally unforgettable. A veritable gold mine.”</p><p>Bull chuckled. “Take another drink.”</p><p>**</p><p>Waking up was <em> not </em>pleasant. Somehow, he’d gotten back to his table in Skyhold’s main hall. Apparently that was as far as his mysterious benefactor had been willing to go...he looked around quickly. Yes, the precious, terrifying pages were right next to him, only slightly crumpled.</p><p>Wait.</p><p>Not...all of them were crumpled.</p><p>Varric pulled his head off the table. “Waking up was easier in the Hanged Man, with Coriff’s watered ale.” Cabot only used the good stuff at the Rest. Most of the time, that was good. After a night with the Chargers? It was less good. Wait. He hadn’t just been drinking Cabot’s stuff. That wouldn’t leave him like this.</p><p>
  <em> Bull had poisoned him.  </em>
</p><p>It was probably fair, given what he’d asked the man to read, but still! “Have the decency to just kill me!”</p><p>“Ser Varric?”</p><p>He focused blearily on the man walking by. “If you have tea - or ale - I’ll forgive you for calling me Ser. I’m just a writer. Did you do it?”</p><p>“I...I...tea. Yes, ser.”</p><p>It wouldn’t make any more impact this time than the last dozen, but it <em> would </em> him tea, ale, and even some biscuits. Varric didn’t lift his head from the table as the man walked off. It was hard enough doing so when the man returned.</p><p>After the first cup of tea, his headache shifted to a nauseating sway. That was...some better.</p><p>He shuffled through the pages and took a bite of biscuit. “I’ve got to know,” he mumbled, then took a swallow of ale.</p><p>Good ale. Well, good for Kirkwall standards - it was the weakest stuff Cabot kept on hand. Varric started another drink before foam and amber liquid sprayed out his mouth and all over the pages.</p><p>“Shit!”</p><p>He used his napkin to try blot out some of the smears, ignoring how his nose burned. He coughed again, then held up the top sheet to the light. It was new. It <em> had </em>to be new. There was no way he would have forgotten this...this….</p><p><em> ‘Gems glittered around the matted furs as he prowled the Orlesian ballroom. They had been woven into his hair, adorning arms and chest with a glittering rainbow that begged to be plucked, one by one. Her teeth ached at the opportunities. If she could only get him alone...but why would he, in his bestial, masculine glory, care about </em> her? <em> She plotted in her cloud of perfume.’ </em></p><p>Holy...Maferath’s...balls.</p><p>He needed something stronger.</p><p>Varric left it all behind - well, not the tankard - and stumbled his squinting way to the Rest.</p><p>“Cabot! We need to talk!”</p><p>It was early, but the scarred dwarf had a firm ‘no one sleeps here’ policy he rigorously enforced on everyone but Bull, Sera, and Cole. It didn’t take long for the bartender to come out of his back room. “Varric?”</p><p>“Cabot, I need you to…”</p><p>The man’s face shifted. Shit, that wasn’t comfortable to look at, but it wasn’t Cabot’s fault he’d been branded so completely. He grinned, his teeth unpleasantly white to Varric’s hangover.</p><p>“You liked it?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>The man’s face flattened into it’s usual look. “Nevermind. I shouldn’t have assumed. What do you want? Your usual?”</p><p>Varric held up a hand. There was something...something...did he like...did he like <em> what? </em>“I’m still in my morning after, slow down. Start over.”</p><p>“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”</p><p>There was still ale in his tankard. Varric downed it, trying to figure things out.</p><p>What if..?</p><p>No. No, it wasn’t possible. He <em> knew </em> what Cabot was up to with Flissa. “It was you? You’re the one who wrote the…” <em> carefully... </em>“mystery work I kept finding on my desk?”</p><p>Now Cabot managed to look not just war-weary and scarred, but bashful.</p><p>Shave him bald. It was <em> Cabot.  </em></p><p>
  <em> “Stories all around, I hear them all the time...maybe this time I can make it.” </em>
</p><p>The whisper caught Varric’s attention. Cole smiled, and vanished again. <em> Fool kid, I can figure that much out. </em>Well, he could when he was sober. With a hangover - well, maybe Cole wasn’t so bad.</p><p>Varric leaned his elbows on the counter. “Look - I couldn’t write that if I’d <em> tried. </em>I need to introduce you to a few people.”</p>
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